


Soft Trees Break the Fall

by weepingnaiad



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Drug Use, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Long way round for a 'fix-it', M/M, Mind Control, Natasha's the best BFF a guy could have, Post-Movie, Rape/Non-con References, Self-Esteem Issues, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After what Clint did while under Loki’s control – and he remembers every detail, every decision, every twitch of muscle – Clint burns with self-loathing.  He never counted on Natasha’s unwavering, unconditional support, nor did he imagine that he’d ever have someone who cared enough to fight Clint himself for his forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Advisory:** graphic depictions of violence, mentions of past non-con and mind control, alcohol and drug use (abuse), homophobic slurs, and survivor’s guilt  
>  **Beta:** Thanks to abigail89. I couldn’t do any of this without her. Seriously, she sees things that I’m too close to ever notice (my own personal Hawkeye!) and she insists that I step up and deliver.  
>  **A/N:** I wanted a fix-it and this hurt-comfort bingo square, _possession / mind control,_ seemed the perfect answer, but the story grew. It’s still a fix-it, just takes a little while to get there. Title taken from the song of the same name by Trent Reznor  & Atticus Ross from “The Social Network” soundtrack.  
>  **Disclaimer:** These are Marvel and Whedon’s characters used in the spirit of creative commons. I promise to return them with smiles on.

Clint measures the passage of time, not by the glowing numbers on numerous clocks, from his phone to the stereo, nor by the ringing tones of the brass and water clock in the foyer of the mansion. Instead he measures it in the minutes that his head does not throb, that adrenaline does not jolt him awake, that he can sit still without feeling like a caged animal, his skin crawling. Those intervals increase until he can convince the doctors, the shrinks, everyone that he is fine.

He is released from medical supervision, from constant observation (no one knows how Loki’s staff had worked, so everyone is suspicious of its possible aftereffects), but he cannot return to his quarters on the helicarrier. His crappy apartment had been destroyed by the Chitauri, so he accepts Stark’s offer of a place in the mansion. It’s not his, will never really be, but it gives him privacy, allows him the space that he needs, even if it is too much space. Too open. Exposed.

And now Clint marks time by slow meticulous words, carefully written on thick, linen paper with a heavy weighted fountain pen. He counts the beats of his heart as he writes, his script a legible scrawl, the words pulled from an inexhaustible supply of guilt and remorse.

But the nagging sense of this being insufficient will not leave; that this is nothing more than a hollow gesture to absolve himself of his crimes. He is blind to his own injuries, refuses to acknowledge that he is as broken as New York, as the helicarrier, as Phil. And the words that he offers, the testament for each fallen agent cannot bring him peace or closure, cannot take from him the memory of his vile deeds. They cannot, because he will not allow them to.

The nib scratches over paper, its sound familiar, but not comforting. He has been writing for four days, holed up here, hiding, unwilling to face anyone. The only other sound in the luxurious suite is the soft whir of the air conditioner, no music or conversation to soften his penance. Then the stillness is broken by the click of a lock. It is barely audible, but he knows every last sound, each creak, groan, and mechanical purr within these walls. There’s a soft scrape of the door sliding over the rug, then silence. That echoing not-sound, more than anything, gives Natasha away.

Clint cocks his head, stops writing mid-word, but refuses to turn. He needs to catch his breath, turn his concentration from heartfelt apologies to verbal sparring. “Come in, Tasha.”

She materializes in the doorway, her expression guarded, unsure of him. Still, she steps into the room, moving to Clint’s side. With one glance at the desk, she takes in the letters and the profile on his screen.

“Barton,” she starts.

“Romanoff,” he interrupts. He’s heard whatever she has to say before, from her, from the psychologist, from Fury. And, right or not, he blames himself. “I need to do this. The shrink called it ‘closure’. She didn’t object.”

“That’s why you have the files?”

He shrugs. “This way it’s legit.”

She grabs the papers then settles gracefully on his desk, her back to the wall, one knee drawn close, the other curled under her as she reads. “You never worked with Agent Tucker,” she says, but there’s no accusation in her voice. “Or Ravindra.”

He can feel the weight of her stare. He catches her eyes from his periphery. She’s studying him, assessing.

“I know. Just thought…” he swallows, hesitates, scrubs at the back of his neck before he continues speaking. He’s well aware that it sounds like ego, not compassion, but it’s empathy and honest concern shot through with soul-eating guilt that makes him do this. “I thought, since the Avengers are a big deal, on television, you know, for saving shit, that it’d make it better. If their families thought we’d worked together, that they could be proud of the sacrifice.” He trails off, aware of just how half-baked the idea sounds now that he’s said it out loud.

Without comment, Natasha plucks the pen from his hand and adds her signature to each letter.

“It’s a good idea, Barton. Except for the part where you blame yourself. There’s only one guy to blame and he’s getting what he deserves.”

Clint looks up at her, thinks twice before finally conceding. He can tell by the gleam in her eye that he won’t win this one. So he keeps quiet and finishes the letter for Agent Gomez. Natasha adds her signature, then places it with the rest.

“How many more do you have to do?” she asks.

“Two.”

“And then?”

He doesn’t answer and she lets him keep his silence. Natasha’s always known just how far to push him and when to back off. In this, nothing’s changed, though he feels her considering gaze, the weight of it making his skin prickle as much as the last two letters make his heart hurt, a pit of dread opening in his stomach. These two died by his hand, one with an arrow to the throat, the other through the eye. It might have been Loki whispering in his mind, might have been that blue gem binding his freewill, but it was his hand that nocked the arrow and fired. Clint never misses. He did this.

If his handwriting is less sure and steady, Natasha doesn’t comment on it. She signs her name, adds the letters to the rest, and sits quietly, offering her presence as a balm, reassurance that he’s certain he doesn’t deserve. But he appreciates it and finally reaches out, entwines their fingers and ducks his head. She doesn’t comment on the tears, just squeezes his hand and gives him the distance to pretend that they’re not there. 

Clint long ago believed that he had no tears left, that no one could hurt him enough to wring tears from him ever again. Loki proved that belief wrong; forced him to come face to face with the true measure of his character and Clint Barton burns with self-loathing.

The sad truth is that Natasha understands what happened to him all too well. 

When the tears stop, Natasha reaches for him, tilts his chin up and brushes the tracks away. He can’t meet her eyes, not when all he can think about is what he’d done, what he’d felt.

Her hand slides to his nape, her fingers begin to scritch at his scalp, soothing. He inhales and shudders, eyes closing at the gentle touches.

“When was the last time you slept, Barton?”

Her voice comes from a distance. He’s already slipping away, exhausted and wrung out. He sighs when her hands leave him. “You need to sleep,” she says, urging him to stand.

He moves where she points, dropping to the bed face first.

Her shoes drop to the floor and he glances at her from under half-closed lids. Her shirt and jeans join them and he closes his eyes to shut everything out, protesting, “Nat.”

But she’s climbing over him, her skin warm, her scent like coming home. He has to swallow a whimper, the lump in his throat suffocating. He wants to curl up against her, bury his face in her neck and pretend this is ten years ago. Everything was easy back then. But he’s a monster. He can’t take her offered comfort, not now.

Instead he pulls away, tries to sit up, but she stops him. “Shush.” Then she’s tugging his shirt off. And when did he become so helpless? So pliant?

“Clint,” she murmurs against his cheek and her voice is warm, intimate, knowing.

He gasps and his eyes fly open. He meets her eyes and she _knows._

“Lie down. With me. So you can sleep.”

She pulls on his arm and he doesn’t have it in himself to fight her. They settle with his head on her breasts, listening to her heartbeat, steady and strong. She tangles their legs, one arm holding him close, the other traces his spine, lingers on each scar, then slides through his hair. It’s his undoing, being petted like this and she knows it. Uses his exhaustion and her knowledge of his weaknesses to soothe him, force him to settle, calm him.

Somehow he dozes. And when the dreams start, she’s there to wake him, hold him until the shaking stops. She keeps the haze of red and blue at bay and he finally succumbs to utter exhaustion and sleeps.

He wakes, eyes snapping open to assess his safety as he gradually remembers where he is. Natasha is still wrapped around him, her limbs slack and warm against him. He’s loath to move but his bladder is insistent. She wakes the instant he shifts, her eyes sharp and bright. That hasn’t changed, either. Clint is slow to wake, but Natasha is up and alert, fully aware before her eyes open.

Her arms tighten and he gives her a grin. “Got to pee.”

She releases him, stretching as he stands. He knows what she’s offering and is sorely tempted. It’s been too long and this, this is good with Natasha, free of stricture and expectation. They know each other so well that there is no dance, just a sweet slide of limbs and uncomplicated pleasure. Her skin is as smooth and creamy white as he remembers; only a few new scars that do not tarnish her beauty but serve to enhance it. Natasha has always been an avenging angel in black, his partner, and even better, his friend.

He huffs out a regretful sigh. For as much as he appreciates her offer, he shakes his head. He is unworthy of her affection and cannot accept. Before he can walk away, she grabs him by the pocket of his sweats and tugs him down. He over balances and nearly topples onto her, but she halts his fall with a widely splayed palm on his chest. Arching up, she kisses him, just a gentle press of lips, reassuring and kind. It makes his breath catch in his throat and tears prick behind his closed eyelids.

Before he starts blubbering, she nips his lower lips and shoves him up. “Go. You need a shower and a shave. I’ll bring breakfast and then we’ll see if you feel more human.”

“Human?”

She shrugs, “Able to talk at least.”

“I passed my psych eval,” he says, his voice dropping to a warning growl.

“Me, too,” she answers, unruffled. “Every damn time.” She slips out of bed, standing smoothly, her limbs and every movement precise and graceful, barely a hair out of place. He has no idea how she does it and he’s left standing there gaping.

Natasha’s comfortable in her own skin, but she smiles at him, the way she licks her lips reminds him just how long it’s been. And he groans.

Instead of leaning into him, she turns him, pointing him toward the shower. “Go.”

He goes. 

The dreamless sleep and long, hot shower go far in restoring him. The French toast and coffee Natasha returns with go the rest of the distance. He feels almost human again as he pushes the tray away.

He’s hopeful that his smile will convince her he’s fine, but he should have known better. She knows him too well, can see past the façade and any defense he tries to mount. She drags him to the sofa where they stretch out, Natasha’s back pressing Clint into the arm. He automatically wraps her up, safe and secure pulled tight against him. And he settles, grounded when her head rests on his shoulder, nose brushing his jaw.

“What’s next, then?” she asks, jumping into the conversation without preamble.

He shrugs. Even if he had a clue, he’s not telling.

“I can’t believe you’re giving all this up.”

“All what?” he snorts. “The alien invasions? Murder? Mass destruction? The crazy mind-raping gods?” he growls. “Not to mention Fury? Just _what_ exactly am I giving up?”

“Clint,” she says, turning to look at him.

“No!” he barks. “Just… no,” he adds, apologetic.

She gives him a soft smile and resettles on his chest, her hair tickling his nose. He bats it away and swallows the regret. He’s going to miss her. And, yeah, he’s going to miss a few other things, one in particular, but right now he’s not going to think about _that._ Can’t afford the sentiment or he might reconsider.

“Running won’t help,” she finally says to the silence, her voice soft, but without pity. “You can’t run from yourself.”

“Natasha, I can’t stay.”

“No one holds you responsible.”

“You don’t know what I did.”

“You did nothing. That was all on Loki. Every last thing.”

He wishes he shared her conviction, her confidence in him. But he had lived it, locked in his head, screaming, even as he delighted in the carnage as he recruited an army for Loki and nearly took down the helicarrier. He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head. 

And then there are the other memories, cold concrete beneath his knees, the taste of salt and otherworldly spice, scratches, bruises, blood etched into his skin, spit and more dribbling down his chin, his thighs. Disjointed images, obscured by a blue haze. A dim light that kept him healed, switched off his humanity, turning him into a ruthless psychopath and a good little pet. His face burns in humiliation. He’d begged, taken it so well, and hadn’t given a thought for Phil. Not once.

His breath catches and he turns his face into the sofa as his stomach churns. At least Natasha can’t see him. One glance at his face and she’d know what had happened, what he’d done, what a twisted fuck he is. Natasha’s one of only two people in the world that he gives a damn about their opinion of him. So he can’t unburden himself, not to her, not to _anyone._

The ever-present low grade headache resurfaces, food and real sleep only forestalling the near constant ache. He’s healing, but slowly. Natasha’s blow had freed him, but left him with a concussion and a lingering disorientation. No one can tell if it’s normal or an aftereffect from the staff. He could handle recognizable side effects. This isn’t the first concussion he’s had, but the occasional flash of blue haze shrouding the world scares the shit out of him. Those flashes and the sense memory of smell and, even worse, of taste jolt him at inconvenient times. Like now.

Bile rises in his throat and he has to move.

So he pushes Natasha away and leaps up from the sofa to start pacing. The room’s clear, no haze, no blue tint, no echo of low laughter in his head, but he’s still nauseated, unsteady. Compromised.

“Clint,” she calls, her voice a beacon at the end of a dark tunnel.

He shudders, grits his teeth, clenches his jaw even as he staggers away. “I can’t stay here, Tasha. Not for anything,” he grinds out, his mind helpfully supplying the _’not for anyone’_ that he still can’t bear to consider.

The wall of windows offers a great view of Manhattan, but all Clint can see is the debris, the mountain of rubble that he helped create. He ducks his head and rests his cheek against the cool glass. The extent of his descent crystallizes when Natasha joins him, standing next to him, hips and shoulders brushing before he’s aware she’s moved.

He hates himself for how much her nearness comforts him, for how very much he’s begging to be forgiven, to be whole once again. “How’d you do it? How’d you find your way back?”

“I killed the fuckers who did it.” She’s so matter of fact, calm. It makes Clint’s guts ache. He’ll never make it to that point, never be dispassionate about what had happened to him. He’s not that strong.

“Not exactly an option,” he replies instead.

“True. And even if he were within reach, I suspect you’d have to go through Thor to get to him.”

He turns his head and arches an eyebrow at her teasing expression. “Okay, I’ll bite. What the hell is up with them?”

She shrugs, a tiny movement of her shoulders. “Not something I understand.” Her _’you know’_ left unsaid. “I’ve heard of people who thrash their siblings, but there’s hell to pay if anyone else tries to.” She gives him a slow, teasing grin. “Or maybe they’re fucking?”

“Jesus! Fuck, Nat! I really didn’t—”

“Yes, yes you did.” But Natasha’s chuckling and Clint’s laughing even if a small part of him is horrified.

She places a palm on his cheek and meets his eyes. He forgets to hide and he knows when she realizes what he isn’t saying. “There was another thing. I was glad to be alive and I laughed, whenever I could.”

“You’re Russian. You don’t laugh,” he says, trying to keep a straight face.

“I don’t laugh at _your_ jokes, Barton. You’re not funny.”

He turns his back on the Manhattan skyline, leans against the glass, arms crossing instinctively. He ducks his head as he speaks. “I’m still leaving.”

“I know. What are you going to do?”

“Well, I left a few loose ends… think I’ll see about sewing them up.”

“Keep me posted? Once in a while?”

“Get Fury’s lap dogs off my back and it’s a deal.”

~~*~~

Natasha steps into Fury’s office with a certainty that she hopes to translate into Fury’s acceptance.

“Agent Romanoff,” Fury says, indicating the chair in front of his desk. “I gave you the time you asked for, now tell me that it wasn’t a mistake.”

She sits, legs crossed at the ankle, hands in her lap, her face carefully neutral. She has to do this right, keep her shit together so Fury agrees. “Agent Barton is still suffering emotional trauma from Loki’s possession. He is unstable and paranoid, bordering on psychosis, but he is not a threat.” _’To us,’_ she doesn’t say.

“And?” he prods, unconvinced. His expression tells her that he doesn’t consider Clint’s state all that changed from before, but she knows different.

“Cut him loose,” she finishes.

“That’s it? That’s your recommendation?” Fury’s face goes hard when she nods. “Agent Barton is an Avenger and one of my best men and you want me to simply ‘let him go’?”

“Yes, sir. Off the grid. No surveillance.”

“Now I’m not so sure that _you’re_ not compromised, Romanoff.”

She swallows, but doesn’t blink. “You will not be able to keep him here. Unless you lock him up and keep him under. And what good will that do you? I am suggesting that you let him go. If he recovers, he will return.”

“And you are so sure of this how?”

She arches one eyebrow at him, her voice matter of fact. “You have Agent Coulson, sir.”

Fury’s face softens, but he doesn’t acknowledge that revelation. “Fine. Agent Barton is relieved. I will call the tail off.”

Natasha stands. She’s bought Clint his freedom. She prays that she gets to be the one to tell him how she did it. 

“Romanoff, it’s on you if he goes rogue. Make sure that he stays under the radar. And out of jail.”

“Got it.”

“Good.” 

He turns away, dismissing Natasha. She leaves on fleet, silent feet.

Now for the hard part…


	2. Chapter 2

Phil is sleeping, his recovery progressing at a surprising pace considering the severity of his injury, but Natasha is not waking him up for this. She has time. It’s not like Clint will be waiting for her at the mansion. He’s long gone; had been the minute Fury pulled his surveillance.

When Phil wakes up, it takes little time for him to look at her and ask, “Barton?”

“You were right,” she confirms.

He gives a curt nod, then settles back into the bed with a soft sigh. “He’s reckless. Can be a danger to himself. Don’t let him be,” he says, so many emotions coloring his normal, flat tones.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

That gets her a tiny smile and a flash of the old spark from Phil’s tired eyes. “Thank you.”

His utter confidence warms her. “My pleasure,” she replies, standing. She brushes a hand over his arm and then gives it a squeeze before dropping a kiss on his forehead. “You be a good patient. We need you out there.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They both smile, even if it’s strained. It’s just not the same with one leg of their trio missing, but neither voices their fears aloud.

~~*~~

_’Call the dogs off, Nat.’_

The summons comes to Natasha when she’s staring at Clint’s latest text. Fury had promised to forget about Clint and all the spot checks she’d done verified that he’s kept his promise over the past three months. Fury isn’t the one tailing Clint. So who? Her phone alerts of another text and she hopes that it’s Clint, meaning that, for once, he’s answering her reply.

But it’s not Clint. Even more unexpected, it’s Phil.

She blinks at the text, instantly on her feet and moving to the elevator. Stark Tower (Avengers mansion, she corrects) is a ridiculously large, over the top adult playground, but Stark had given her a home, a haven that she hadn’t known before. Hadn’t even known she wanted such a thing. So she usually doesn’t begrudge him a few of its more outlandish features. Right now, she is cursing ten floors of R&D as the elevator slips quickly past.

The elevator stops mid-way to the street and she exits to the lobby of… offices? An entire floor of empty office space. She double-checks the text and she’s on the right floor, but this isn’t what she expected. She knows Stark Tower backwards and forwards and she’s certain that this floor was empty two days ago. Her hackles rise and she fluidly pulls a gun from the back of her jeans, flicks the safety off and slides to the wall, her heart rate ramping up as she moves, eyes already flitting to each security camera.

She doesn’t have the advantage of surprise, so she bursts in, ducks and rolls to the right, ending in a crouch with her gun pointed at Phil Coulson.

Who is sitting behind a desk. There is no one else in the room. She checks. Phil lets her.

She stops before his desk and looks at him. He’s still too thin and very pale, but he seems to have full range of motion in his left arm as he gestures for her to sit.

“Sir? Aren’t you still on medical leave?”

“A guy can only take living with his mother for so long.” He’s giving her that tiny smile, but it’s sparse, a bit broken. “Please, have a seat, Agent Romanoff. I’m sorry for the surprise, but I needed to talk to you in private. This seemed the most expedient way to do so.”

Natasha puts away her gun and sits, but she leans forward, sets her elbows on the desk and fixes Phil with a hard stare. “You’re the one tailing Barton.”

Phil’s non-answer is answer enough.

She wants to tear into him, for numerous reasons, not the least is his own barely healed self, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes, a worry and fear that she’s not accustomed to seeing from Agent Philip J. Coulson. The few times she has seen it, she had been gravely injured.

“Dammit, Coulson,” she mutters, displeased. “I promised.”

He opens his palms and shrugs.

“He’s fine.”

Phil looks disbelieving, so Natasha sits back, crosses her legs and glares at him. She is so over the two of them and their obliviousness.

“Natasha, please. He’s not fine.” His voice betrays him as he pushes over a sheaf of papers. She scans the reports from the police, Interpol, FBI, various agencies around the globe. There’s a “mysterious” vigilante out there. She snorts. Not all that mysterious. He might not be using Hawkeye’s signature shafts and he is particularly vicious, but each kill bears Clint’s signature. A black, carbon-fiber arrow to the neck, just off center, to break the victim’s neck without killing them instantly, but pinning them to a handy vertical surface, then the shaft of the arrow is broken in two and the broken end is shoved into the victim’s eye. They die relatively quickly then.

She shoves the papers back and shakes her head. “Phil,” she begins because he’s not Coulson right now. He’s trying to tamp down his emotions, be their detached handler again. He hasn’t succeeded. She knows him too well and there’s no way he could be ‘Agent’ or ‘Sir’ – though Natasha always gives Phil the respect he’s due – not now. He has earned that respect, in so many ways, not the least of which was supporting Clint when he brought her in.

“Phil, why are you here? You’re still on medical leave. This will keep.” She waves at the desk, at the papers, at the worry and stress he’s creating when there’s not a damn thing he can do for Clint. Not yet.

He sags, his eyes limned by purple smudges and deep creases. Phil Coulson is one determined, stubborn man, but even he can’t fight his still recovering body forever.

“I am unaccustomed to being out of the loop. I’m even more unfamiliar with ‘down time’, Natasha. And my mother is a singularly,” he pauses, “strong-willed individual. We did not see eye to eye on my rehabilitation.”

Natasha has met Victoria Coulson. Once. She’s a striking, soft-spoken blond in her mid-sixties. She is also the definition of badass, a retired wetworks asset that Natasha fan girled before she learned that Victoria was Phil’s mum. A few of Victoria’s stories later, coupled with her charm and grace, had given Natasha deep insight into what makes Phil Coulson tick. But that knowledge wasn’t freely shared by Phil, so Natasha doesn’t mention any of it. She can’t forget what she has learned, but she won’t use it against him unless it’s for his own good. Natasha only wishes she had a mother to grow weary of.

“She didn’t let you work.”

“She did not,” Phil agrees.

Natasha stands. She gathers up the papers on Phil’s desk, shoving them in a drawer over his protests. She doesn’t tug him out of his chair, but she does hold out her hand, offering her support. “Smart woman.”

He refuses to stand, just looks up at her with a question in his eyes. “Natasha.”

He says her name, one little word, but with so much emotion, pain, and outright fear that she can’t put him off any longer. Clint will forgive her, she thinks. Once he forgives himself, she hopes.

“He texts. I occasionally even get a voice mail, so I know it’s him. Always from a burner cell phone. He never replies to anything I send him and he’s never been in the same place long enough for me to find him.” She bites her lip, knows that Phil isn’t going to like what she’s about to say.

“I gave him my word. That he would be completely off the radar, left alone, and most definitely not followed. You have to get rid of the tail.”

Phil starts to protest, but she cuts him off. “No.” She takes a deep breath. “You read the report?” It’s not a question because she knows he did. There is no way that, upon wakening, he didn’t immediately demand to know the exact state of every single one of his charges, especially Clint Barton. If the hell that Loki put them all through is not enough to finally knock some sense into both of them, Natasha will enlist Tony Stark’s help to lock them in a room until they finally tell each other how they feel.

If Clint comes back in one piece.

Phil nods, his face growing gray when he remembers. 

“He needs this,” she continues. “It has nothing to do with you, or me, Fury, SHIELD, or even the Avengers. Clint has to learn to trust himself again. And he needs to do that without a watchdog. On his own terms.”

Natasha’s not sure she can say more, not sure she _should_ say more, but Phil needs her to. She places a hand on his left arm, runs her hand up to his shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze. “The report’s not complete, but it’s as honest as Clint can be.”

His eyes narrow and his lips draw into a thin line. 

“Phil. If he _ever_ tells anyone what happened, it’ll be you, but don’t hold your breath. This might be just one of those things that you’ll have to accept and ignore.”

“Among the many.”

She gives him a smile. But she can see the fatigue wearing him down. “Come on. You need to lie down. There are at least four guest suites—”

Phil looks vaguely guilty as he interrupts her. “I have an apartment down the hall.”

Natasha shakes her head. “That might be, but right now, I want you close.” She tugs him up, careful of his left side, shushing his protest. “Clint’s room is available. I think he’d be happy you’re there.”

“I can’t.”

They’re at the elevator. Natasha is not going to be denied. “Yes, you can. And you will. I promise to keep you in the loop – on Clint and SHIELD – but only if you accept this invitation.”

“Invitation? I feel like you’re kidnapping me,” he argues, but he’s not resisting. Natasha smiles. Phil always did have a weakness for a pretty face, but he fell in love (whether he admits it or not) with a quick witted, smart ass whose killer smile hides more than it reveals. At least she has some good news to text back to Clint the next time she hears from him. It’s small, but it’s something. And right now, she’ll take what she can get.

~~*~~

_’The hawk has returned to the eagle’s nest. Intercept?’_

_’Orders remain unchanged.’_ Phil types, hitting send before he can do something rash. At least Clint’s back on US soil where surveillance and extraction are readily available. He tries not to wonder if Clint ever plans to return to SHIELD. He’s not successful.

~~*~~

“Boss, there’s some guy been snooping around. He doesn’t smell like a Fed, but there’s something ‘off’ about him.”

The hard-eyed man stands and looks at the hired goon. He takes a casual pull on the cigar, then blows the smoke in his lackey’s face. “So kill him, you idiot.”

The minute the door slams in the cavernous warehouse, Clint shoots. The arrow pierces clean through the slime’s shoulder, pinning him to the stack of crates behind him, his pained shout echoing as Clint drops down from his perch.

“You!” Jake, his prey, once a nemesis from a couple of lifetimes ago, shouts. He makes no move to struggle or extract the arrow. For all that the man he’s shot is filth of the lowest order, he’s brilliant. His smarts and cunning are why Clint saved him for last. That, and their history. This one deserves to go out slow. Painfully.

“Me,” Clint replies, his voice steady even though the adrenaline has his heart thundering.

“My, my, my, little Clinton Barton. I always told Barney you were a faggot,” he pauses, sneering. “I almost didn’t recognize you without that psycho’s dick in you.”

“You’ll have to do better than that to save your skin, Jake,” Clint says, voice low and raspy.

“Now that would be downright inhospitable of me. Begging you for my life straight away.” He meets Clint’s gaze, his eyes challenging. “You’re looking for vengeance. It can’t be satisfying if I don’t fight, ain’t that right?”

Clint grits his teeth, jaw clenching tight. “Just cleaning up some loose ends I left lying around.” He manages to get out past the stiffness in his jaw. He’s breathing through his nose, using every technique he’s learned to keep the tide of emotions closed off and locked away. “Mucking out the shit.”

Jake laughs, a bit of red-flecked spittle settling at the corner of his mouth. “Cute how you think you’re better’n me, Barton. You’re a murderous, lying cocksucker, just doing it with government sanction.” 

“Funny how you think your pathetic self could wind me up, Jake,” Clint smiles, his eyes cold as he crosses his arms over his chest and watches. “I’m not Barney’s little brother anymore.”

“Well, then. Guess we’re at an impasse. You best get on with it, _Clinton_. I’m expecting company.”

Clint cocks his head, ponders why this piece of excrement is utterly unafraid of dying. Jake Culpepper is a coward and a bully. Clint knows the extent of the crimes he’s committed, from his petty larceny as a teen to gun running, which has now mutated like metastasized cancer, spreading to meth distribution, prostitution and slavery. What he doesn’t understand or believe is that Jake would simply dare Clint to kill him.

“In a hurry to be dead?” Clint asks, still puzzling through everything he’s learned in the past months, but he shoulders his bow, steps close. He wants this done. _Needs_ it to be over.

Jake chuckles which tears at his shoulder and he groans. He tilts his head back, rests it against the crack and levels Clint with dark, emotionless eyes. “I’ve been expecting you. A guy like me, I gotta keep track. I watched what happened to New York, then the rest. I saw you coming.”

He takes a shuddering breath, tries to keep his shoulder immobile. “I’ve got cancer. Got it bad. Your way’s quicker.”

Clint’s hand stills on the shaft, his eyes narrowing. “You should have kept your mouth shut, asshole.” He steps back, shaking his head, giving the guy a grim smile.

This time the guy laughs. “You’re too easy, Barton.” He reaches up with his free hand and wipes the sweat off his upper lip. “Good for nothing but sucking dick. A cheap little cockslut like you. I can’t believe it was you who killed all those men. Bet you had help. Which of those freaks, those _heroes,_ ” he sneers, “fucks you?”

Clint nearly punches the guy, but he pulls the swing at the last minute. He needs to finish this or not, but he can’t decide if the guy’s lying. He seems awfully eager for death, but then, this guy’s a criminal mastermind.

“You best hurry, little bird,” he mocks Clint, recalling one of the names Loki had called him. It isn’t the worst, but he has to clench his jaw to keep from saying anything. If he can keep his mouth shut, this guy will tell him what he needs to know. Natasha taught him that. “My men will be returning and, trust me, you won’t enjoy the fucking they’ll give you nearly as much as Loki’s,” he threatens.

And that decides Clint. He snaps the arrow on the score marks, smiling grimly as the movement rips through Jake. He’s panting, sweat beading on his face, his eyes going fuzzy from the pain and the blood dripping down his back, but he doesn’t blink, just spits out, “Do it, Barton. I’m the last one, the only one who heard you beg, knows just what Loki did to you. You can’t let me live.”

Clint’s nostrils flare, but he smiles. “Oh, but I can,” he assures.

He starts walking away and the guy shouts, swears, but can’t come up with a single epithet that Clint hasn’t already called himself. Clint stops, turns, then slams the broken shaft into Jake’s gut. “That’s for all those girls, you bastard.”

Clint’s taken a knife to the gut before. It’s a slow, painful way to die, but far faster than cancer. He doesn’t know why he was almost merciful.

He walks away, leaves Miami, heads west, any direction but north, no matter what his heart wants.

The nightmares return two days later. He’s in some small town in bumfuck Arkansas when his dreams shade blue.

~~*~~

Phil settles into his new office, or tries to. It’s roomier than his old one on the helicarrier, but the space only emphasizes how empty it is. It’s too quiet here at Stark, no _Avengers_ Tower. The Avengers are needed far too often, but there’s so much space here and too few personnel; nothing like the constant buzz of the helicarrier. To be honest, Phil misses his cramped office. He’d gladly trade all of this tasteful, understated elegance and amazing view for his utilitarian furniture. Pepper and maybe even Natasha must have had a hand with the decorating. It all is too perfect, too suited to him for it to have been some random decorator. For all of their effort, it is missing something. Unwilling, he glances up at the air duct and sighs.

He turns to his e-mail, to the reports and briefings he’d missed while away. Natasha and Pepper and Maria had all been most thorough in keeping him out of the loop. But Phil had kept his hands in enough to know the status of all ongoing ops. He’s caught up as lunch nears and he’s already bored and more than a bit lost. Before he can devise anything suitably devious to test Stark’s security protocols, Natasha steps into his office.

She hands him a piece of paper then sits, her face unreadable. He glances at it: it’s a letter of resignation.

“No,” he answers simply.

“Sir,” she starts.

He cuts her off, shaking his head. “Talk to me, Agent Romanoff,” he demands, his voice hard to hide the way he can’t breathe.

“An old friend needs me.”

“Barton?” Just saying Clint’s name aloud makes his head spin.

“No, sir,” she assures him. “Clint’s fine. Somewhere in Canada last I heard.”

“Wyoming,” Phil corrects, his heart racing as he sucks in air once again. Someone that left, that hasn’t once called shouldn’t be able to tear him apart so easily. “So who?” he asks, trying to get his mind back on track.

Natasha doesn’t sigh or fidget. She’s too good for that, but she is struggling with something. Wrestling with just how much information she can trust him with.

“Someone important to me. But he,” she hesitates, “this can’t be official business.”

Phil’s surprised. He hadn’t known she’d left someone behind. He had been pretty damn certain that Clint was the first and last ‘important someone’ in her life.

“Fine. But I’m not accepting this.” He slides the paper into the shredder. “We’ll figure something else out.”

Natasha gives him a slight smile. He’s pretty sure she’s relieved.

Phil sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers, plotting. “I need details.”

The grin she gives him then is wry and her eyes spark playfully. “Nice try, sir. But I’m not giving you anything. It’s enough you know that I’m leaving and why.”

“You might as well tell me when and where at least.” He holds up a hand to forestall her protest. “Just me. Off the record. I’ll find out one way or the other so save us both the trouble.”

“Grodno.”

“Belarus?”

At her curt nod, he asks, “An old associate?”

She nods again, confirming his worst fears. “He wants to come in from the cold.”

Phil sucks in a harsh breath. There’s nothing he can do to dissuade her. More than anything he wishes that Clint was around. He’s the only one that might talk her out of this or at the least provide credible backup.

“Dammit, Natasha! At least give me something so I can get you out of there if it all goes to hell.”

She looks sad for a moment. They both know who _should_ be her backup. With a subtle shake of her head she stands, giving Phil one last wistful smile. “I’ll message you a failsafe before I’m offline.”

That’s more than he expected, so he takes it. “Be careful. Please.” His _’I can’t lose you, too’_ goes without saying.

Once she’s gone the silence echoes. His office is empty and his chest aches, but it’s not from the scar that he rubs at thoughtlessly. The pain plaguing him is deeper, down to his bones, with no physical cause. He sighs. The next days are going to suck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit short, but that's because the next is a bit long. It's a doozy but hopefully worth it.

Clint’s descent into psychosis and addiction starts as simple avoidance. It ends when he decides he wants to live.

Sleep brings a deluge of images: death and destruction, chaos wrought by his hand. The self-loathing makes him reckless, fuels his tendency for self-destruction. But he won’t (can’t) ask for help.

So he foregoes sleep, plays the game, alternates stimulants with sleeping pills and an occasional catnap. He drives for twenty-four hours straight, only stopping for gas and whatever food he can grab at roadside diners. By the time he hits Denver, he’s a danger to himself and everyone on the road, so he pulls over at some cheap motel, takes a sleeping pill and then crashes for ten hours.

He jerks awake, heart pounding, mouth dry, and utterly disoriented. It’s a side effect of the drugs, not terror from his dreams, or so he tells himself. Still, he tastes bile and worse on the back of his throat and barely makes it to the dingy bathroom as the images still swirl in his head. He cleans up as best he can even though the shower stall is too small, almost claustrophobic. And that’s another side effect of the drugs. They’re slowly turning him inside out, making his skin crawl and turning his normal heightened awareness into outright paranoia.

He gazes into the mirror and flinches from the image that greets him. He looks like hell, eyes red rimmed, circles so dark they’re almost black underneath; he’s wan, his normal olive turning sallow. He needs sleep, real rest, some peace, but that’s not an option, not with the memories – both good and bad – still so vivid. He foregoes shaving, figures a beard and sunglasses will hide the worst of the damage.

He dresses, grabs breakfast and hits the road, his crappy pickup struggling as the highway climbs into the mountains. Colorado seems as good a place as any to get lost, so he decides to stay. It takes time, but he finds odd jobs working as a handy man, helping out around the ski resorts that are open to hikers and campers for the summer. There’s a steady trickle of work, from carpentry to plumbing to painting; enough to keep a cheap roof over his head and food in his belly. He even has a little extra for pills to help him sleep.

He doesn’t care that the cocktail of drugs and booze is burning him up. He feels it in his lungs, his heart, his head, the way his blood pounds through his veins, the way his mouth goes dry. The drugs are a crutch, a stop-gap, temporary, until he can forget. He’s weaned himself off them once, ages ago; he can do it again. Just not yet. He tries to tell himself that the stuff he’s running from now isn’t any worse than the stuff back then. He tries to convince himself he’ll be fine.

He’s been tortured, been through all the resistance training, the aftercare, the deprogramming and de-briefs. A SHIELD agent can’t afford to have flashbacks, can’t afford to freeze or blackout. He knows what this is. PTSD. He’s seen the symptoms before, in Phil. He never wants to see Phil so broken again. 

And, of course, the mere thought of Phil conjures memories he’d rather forget. He regrets choosing Colorado when he remembers Vail. They’d tracked an AIM cell to a chalet off of a remote ski run. Clint had posed as a ski instructor to get access to restricted areas and Phil had stayed close by playing Clint’s rich, if clumsy, student. They’d been too cozy, had too much fun with the ‘lessons’, which were all the more humorous because Phil was the better skier, nearly Olympics’ caliber. But Clint was able to touch freely and Phil had done more than his share of flirting in return. Clint really doesn’t need to remember the kisses they’d shared to keep up the ruse. And he sure as hell doesn’t need to remember how happy he’d been, even when the op went pear-shaped.

He shoves those memories away, wills himself to forget. This is his choice and he really shouldn’t dwell on what he walked away from. Not when his own emotions are so raw and prickling across his skin. He glances at the clock. It’s too early to take anything else. He’s got to get a handle on it. He tries, but fails.

The brawl stops the incessant ants marching along his spine, but costs him his job.

He leaves the key under the mat and tosses his duffle in the truck. He’ll miss the scenery, the fact that people don’t question him as long as he shows up to work on time and gets the job done. Sighing, he heads north. It’s been a long time since he was in Canada. And that time wasn’t with Phil. Small favors.

Canada’s barely better than Colorado. He lasts a month before the silence, the open spaces, the empty sky feels too exposed, too unsafe. He tries to ride it out. Burns through the last of his sleeping pills to combat the nearly endless summer days, but that only compounds the anxiety. His resistance is building up, the first sign of addiction. The other signs are there, too, but the drugs aren’t killing him fast enough. He’d swallow his gun, but he honestly doesn’t think he deserves a quick end. He hopes his self-destructive streak is going to win this time.

Without the sleeping pills to dull his senses, to calm his brain, his sleep is torturous, never ending horror, his hands bathed in blood. He wakes screaming and shaking, every muscle coiled tight for a battle he can’t win. But those dreams aren’t the worst. The dreams of home, of Phil and Nat, of loving and being loved in return, those are the dreams that slice him to ribbons. They taste too real, of possibilities, of hope. But Clint betrayed that future and the dreams are colored with regret and loss, a shade of blue exactly the color of Loki’s gem. Each night they end the same, with Phil leaving because Clint’s too fucked up. Those are the dreams that make him want to end it.

Soon enough Clint’s crawling the walls so he strides outside, slugging back vodka as he stalks through the trees. The sun finally sets and the sky comes alive with color, terrifying Clint until he realizes that it’s not Loki’s staff. His mind is still his own. The aurora borealis should fill him with awe, not dread. Yet another thing Loki stole from him.

He collapses, ends up propped against a tree, staring upward, forces himself to watch the shifting lights. All he can think of is how much Phil would enjoy this. His heart stutters and he remembers nothing else except wetness on his cheeks.

He passes out in the yard and wakes dry heaving. His head’s aching; every part of him is trembling. He drags himself up onto all fours and hangs his head between his shoulders. He hasn’t managed to kill himself yet and, if he’s honest, he doesn’t want to.

SHIELD (and Phil) had been his home, his life for so long that Clint’s lost without that grounding presence, that sense of purpose. He’d never had a plan for what comes after; after SHIELD, because he never expected there to _be_ an after. He refuses to become a hired killer, even if he only takes out the kind of slime that deserves it. Phil wanted better for him when he recruited Clint, and dammit if Clint’s conscience doesn’t sound exactly like Phil; that dry way he’d have of putting Clint in his place with little more than a glance. Goddammit he misses Phil with every ounce of his being.

His stomach convulses once again and the pain washes through him. He’s not really clear-headed, but he’s smart enough to know that he can’t keep doing this. In his current state, some thug with a vendetta will find him and finish him faster than the booze and drugs.

It takes time and more withdrawal pain than Clint remembers, but he weans himself from the drugs and tapers off the drinking. His hands stop shaking and his appetite returns. But Canada is still too open and empty, too damned lonely, so Clint moves south. A lucky encounter with a traveling carnival gives him a job he’s well-suited for, provides him with enough distraction and familiarity that the nightmares fade into a muted blue-gray fog.

The dreams of Phil stay just as heartbreakingly vivid, so real he never wants to wake. They don’t leave him alone. If Clint’s honest, he doesn’t want them to.

~~*~~

Phil files the report, reaches for the next form and finds nothing. He stares blindly at his desk. His _empty_ desk. He is completely and utterly caught up. With the Avengers scattered, and no one attacking New York City, there is nothing for Phil to do.

He dreads returning to his apartment. It’s luxurious and ten times the size of his quarters on the helicarrier, but it’s a hundred times emptier. He’d rather be on the carrier. Staying here in the mansion only serves as a reminder that his team isn’t here. It never bothered him before, but now it gets under his skin, makes him snappish and fretful. Never in all his years as Natasha’s handler has he worried like he’s doing now. Even an overly strenuous work out can’t soothe the ache.

So Phil gets take out and flips on the television. He hopes Natasha will call if she needs him. He wishes Clint would.

He doesn’t realize, can’t know, just how similar his dreams are to Clint’s; how they’re both aching for a sense of belonging, of home, that they’d only found in each other. But Phil’s dreams always end with Phil bleeding out on the helicarrier, Clint’s eyes glowing an unholy blue as he watches Phil die; the Avengers Initiative an abject failure and New York City gone in a mushroom cloud.

Phil wakes gasping for air, his heart thudding madly against his ribs, and the angry scars on his chest and back throbbing. He’s utterly without a plan for the first time in his life and it scares the shit out of him.

~~*~~

Natasha doesn’t use the failsafe, she doesn’t call, but Phil’s not stupid. He’s been tracking her, knows that she hasn’t returned from her last meet-up. If he’s wrong, which he’s not, she’ll be pissed, but he’ll take Natasha angry over dead any day. And, yeah, he might be using this as an excuse to find Clint, to finally talk to him. Phil’s self-aware enough to know his motivation. It’s been long enough and Phil’s patience has worn thin. He needs his archer ( _Clint_ ) back.

He does keep one promise; he doesn’t reveal Natasha’s mission or Clint’s current location to Fury. He’s fully cleared for duty, back for over two weeks when he was ready a month ago, he can handle a visit to a carnival. What he has trouble with is the midway, specifically a certain barker who’s easy grin and casual patter is drawing crowds to his booth. 

Phil hides in the press of people so that he can watch Clint’s shtick. When Clint’s on a SHIELD op, it’s easy enough to believe he was a Ranger, like Phil, or a Seal, like Jasper, but Clint’s not military. Clint’s boot camp is all around Phil, a less disciplined training ground, but one that had honed Clint into an Avenger. And he’s set all that aside in favor of neon lights, cotton candy, rigged games, and tinny classic rock; favors the near-constant travel, the small towns and anonymity over acclaim.

And yet even here Clint’s no ordinary hustler. He’s wearing an easy smile, faded jeans, a sleeveless black tee and charming everyone from toddlers to great grandmothers despite the toll the intervening months have taken on him. No one here except Phil would know the difference.

Clint’s booth has a steady stream of patrons cheerfully handing over their money. Not a single person can tell that Clint is thinner, his eyes are not as bright, and his smile is forced. Even with all that, the ravages so visible to Phil, his breath catches and he smiles as desperate warmth suffuses him. The crowd shifts at that moment and Phil ducks away, but he’s pretty sure he’s been made from the way Clint’s head snaps around, his eyes darting through the crowd to meet Phil’s. Every muscle in Phil’s body locks up. He can’t move, can’t tear his eyes away. It’s clichéd and stupid and not what he does, dammit, but he honestly thought he’d never see Clint again.

Clint looks away, rewards the current winner with a small stuffed dog and a captivating smile, but his shoulders are relaxed when he glances back up. It’s not an outright invitation, but it’s more than Phil had hoped for. He steps into the open, casually walks to the side of Clint’s booth, leans over like he’s asking directions and is immensely gratified when Clint’s eyes track him the whole way. It’s not the first time Clint has seen Phil in jeans, but Phil’s been working to regain muscle and he’s a bit leaner than _before._ He’d like to think Clint approves by the half-smile he gets before Clint turns away.

With a word here and there, Phil gets a promise that Clint won’t run and he makes it clear that he’ll be waiting for Clint at closing. He gets a hesitant agreement. So Phil wanders the midway but never strays far from Clint’s booth, not when he can look his fill. If his mind goes places usually reserved for the shower or his bed, Phil will never tell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. The boys got chatty and took awhile to get anywhere. I did notice that I'm an unrepentant sap, but I think anyone who knows my writing knows this.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy nonetheless!

Phil waits. He can do that. Patience is something he has in spades, even if this time the stretch of time makes his mouth go dry and his brain fritz as he obsesses, analyzing every little scenario, word, possibility. It’s no help when Natasha’s words and the associated guilt keep coming back to him. On endless repeat until even the shrill pinging from the arcade can’t block them out.

_’Since I can’t be there, it’s up to you to take care of him, Phil. He deserves better than he’s gotten and you do, too. Fight for him, if you have to, but bring him home. If he stays out there any longer, he’ll forget that he has a home. Then he’ll be lost to us forever. Don’t let that happen, boss. I’m counting on you.’_

He swallows, grateful for the sickly sweet iced tea, and paces. The rigged firing range gains him a stuffed dog that looks more like a pig, but it passes the time, eases the pressure in his brain until, finally, the muzak stops and the neon dims.

He’s as ready as he’ll ever be for what comes next.

~~*~~

Phil follows Clint through a maze of trucks and equipment on the backlot to a tiny, rickety trailer, preceding him into the cramped space. There’s one of those tables that converts into a bed, a sink, small fridge, a two-burner stove, some cupboards, with the toilet doubling as a closet. The whole place is dingy, ancient; the cheap vodka bottles filling the trash tell Phil more than any words. But the trailer’s tidy and clean, almost impersonally so. He’s not surprised. Clint never had order or consistency in his life and he’s always taken pains with his bunk and his quarters. Still, this isn’t where Clint belongs.

They stand there, too close, and Phil can’t help staring. Clint’s changed. He’s been whittled away, is spare, lean, cheek bones more defined; hair close-cropped. He’s fucking beautiful, more than ever. But when their eyes connect, his are wary and broken, haunted. He won’t hold Phil’s gaze. He ducks his head and shuffles his feet.

Phil squeezes into the table, folding his legs under and around the central, supporting pole.

“So, what drags you here?” Clint breaks the silence.

“You got anything to drink besides vodka?” Phil asks. He’s going to ease into this so help him.

“Coors?” Clint offers. When Phil shudders, he almost laughs.

“It’s in a can, isn’t it, Barton?” Then he bites back a muttered, “Piss in a can,” but nods.

Clint leans down and snags two cans, tossing one which Phil handily catches. “You remember. I’m touched.”

“One does not forget such a beverage.” He refuses to term it ‘beer’. Still it’s cold and wet and gives Phil something to do, so he pops the top and takes a swig, his eyes drawn to Clint’s neck as he swallows.

Clint drains his can and tosses it onto the pile in the trash. It totters, but stays. Of course. Then Clint is leaning down over the fridge door and snagging another beer. Phil takes a moment to appreciate the way the faded denim hugs his ass, how muscular his thighs are. And, dammit, that’s not helping.

Phil has had too much practice surreptitiously staring at Clint and the habit returns without thought. He’s staring at the scarred formica table top when Clint sits across from him.

“So,” Clint says. He’s leaning back, body taut, suspicious.

And Phil sighs. He wonders if he’ll ever regain Clint’s trust, if they’ll ever be effortless, the way they were. Probably not. Too much pain and loss. Not just too much water under the bridge; a fucking tsunami tore the whole damn bridge down. That realization makes his throat close.

His eyes fly up, meet Clint’s narrowed ones and he knows, can see the tension building. He’s got to say something. Instead he chickens out, takes another swallow of beer and tries desperately to ignore the way his pulse is racing.

Clint’s jaw clenches and Phil holds up a hand, pleads silently with his eyes.

Clint settles back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why’re you here, Coulson? I resigned. Or didn’t they tell you that when you came back from being dead?” he asks, voice scraped raw. The air in the room grows stifling, heavy, thick enough to cut.

Phil stands suddenly, reaches for the windows and cranks them open. “Sorry,” he blurts out over his shoulder. Opening the windows gives him a couple of moments to get ahold of himself. It’s ridiculous that he needs time. He’s an agent of SHIELD, a former Army Ranger; he’s seen and done things that would drive most people mad, often before breakfast. This is Clint Barton. Phil still considers the man a friend, so why is this so fucking hard?

Clint’s watching, Phil can feel his eyes boring into his spine, but he can’t bear turning around. Not while his hands shake and sweat beads under his arms. 

“Phil?” Clint’s voice is tentative and that’s not right. This is all so screwed up.

It takes another few seconds, but he turns, leans against the closet and meets Clint’s gaze. He says, “It’s Romanoff,” instead of asking Clint anything.

Clint jerks up, his hands balling into fists. “What happened?”

“Sit down, Barton.”

There’s something in Clint’s eyes, the way his lips compress into a thin line. If this had been before Loki, Phil would swear that Clint’s more hurt than angry, but that doesn’t make sense.

Of course, Clint refuses to sit. There’s no room to pace, so he leans against the sink, elbows on the counter, stretches his legs out until his scuffed boots tap the door beside Phil’s shoes. He’s the picture of casual, except that he’s not. He’s got Phil blocked in, trapped. Phil couldn’t escape if he wanted to, not that he does, but it’s unsettling how out of practice he is with handling one Clint Barton.

“Spill it, boss. What’s happened?” he demands.

“She’s extracting an old friend and missed a check in.”

Clint cocks his head, puzzling out the information. “This wasn’t a sanctioned op?”

Phil shakes his head slowly, hating to admit that he’d allowed it.

“I can be ready in five. Where is she?” Whatever Clint is feeling, whatever doubts he has when he looks at Phil, all of that doesn’t matter. 

“You’re not going off half-cocked, Barton.” And, yeah, Phil’s a bit angry when he thinks about it. Clint doesn’t think twice when it’s Natasha, but he never once contacted Phil all these months. _’Did he even care that I didn’t die?’_ A steady flush starts rising in Phil’s chest, up his neck, and he feels his heart begin to race and his breathing speed up. He’s too hyper aware of both, heart and lungs, knows too well how fragile it all is, but this, this is new.

“I don’t know what else you expect.”

“We’re going back to HQ, get proper support first.”

Clint crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh, hell no!” he barks out. “What the fuck, sir? Nat didn’t trust SHIELD with this, we’re sure not bringing them in behind her back.” He stands and pushes past Phil, reaching for the closet handle.

Phil is suddenly furious for so many reasons, the primary one, the one that has consumed him for _years_ is standing there being a little shit about this. It’s been months of worry, months of painful recovery, those long months devoid of one cocky archer, and Phil’s had enough. He widens his stance and blocks Clint’s movement, grabbing Barton’s hand, stopping him.

“I said ‘no’, Barton.” His voice drops to flinty steel tones. “Agent Romanoff has a failsafe which she has not used. So we have time to do this right. To keep anyone else – most likely _you_ – from getting caught. Or worse. My orders.” Phil’s off his game or he would have handled this very differently, but he’s seeing red and they’re glaring at each other. Too close in too small a space. He can feel the air crackle with tension and he knows better, but he’s lost all objectivity about one Agent Barton.

Clint has never taken well to being ordered about and Clint, in the here and now, is raw and broken, weary and suspicious, moreso than Phil ever remembers seeing. Of course he doesn’t react well.

He breaks Phil’s hold, hands curling into fists. He cracks his neck, cocks his head at Phil and moves closer, one step, two, until he’s nearly in Phil’s face, their eyes locked. “Fuck you, Coulson, or have you forgotten? I. Don’t. Work. For. SHIELD.”

And then it all goes wrong.

Phil’s cornered and pissed. Something vicious boils up from his gut and he lashes out on instinct, faster than he’s been in years. Sparring with Steve had its advantages – his fist connects with Clint’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

Clint’s eyes widen in shock, then he punches back. Phil’s head connects with the cabinet, he sees stars, but doesn’t stop, knees Clint in the thigh, and the fight turns ugly, dirty, fearsome. Both out for blood.

They know each other’s weaknesses, know just how to cut under a sloppy guard. The trailer shakes and rattles around them when Clint’s thrown against the door. He grunts as the handle hits him in the kidney, but doesn’t even pause. He takes Phil down with a sharp twist of his leg between Phil’s thighs. It’s a classic Natasha move, all the more painful because Phil should have seen it coming. He knows better than to widen his stance that much.

Still, he rolls with it, where he can, ends up in a crouch, back pressing against the stove, weak arm shoved up against the closet door, which is cracked. He shouldn’t notice those things, not when Clint has him cornered and is pacing toward him looking like _that._ Anger and more burns through Phil, coiling tight and low in his gut and he refuses to concede.

He barrels into Clint, surprising him as he shoves him back, but Clint turns the amateurish move to his advantage, goes down into a roll, pulling Phil down with him. Phil lands flat on his back, the air knocked out of his lungs and Clint pounces. There’s a knee in his gut, one pinning his thighs, his hands caught and held. They’re both panting, bruised, a bit bloody and Phil needs Clint off him right this goddamn instant because the burn, the misplaced fury has morphed and his body is turning against him, conspiring with the infuriating man above him.

All of this would be easier if Phil could admit to himself that his feelings for Clint have long been something more than professional, something beyond friendship, but Phil hasn’t and he doesn’t plan to start now. Denial and repression are his mantra. Besides, Clint trusts too easily, even after all the times he’s had that trust abused and broken. Trust. Love. Betrayal. They go hand in hand for Clint, and Phil swore a long time ago that he wasn’t going to join that long list. Yet his body is arguing, seems to think the oath he’d sworn to himself was a guideline. Optional.

With some inner resolve that Phil has no clue he has, he licks at his bloody lip, unclenches his jaw, and forces each muscle to relax. It takes time and effort, but he swallows and finds his voice. “Get off me, Barton.” His legs twitch at the sound of his voice. It’s wrecked, and yeah, if Clint doesn’t move soon, he’s going to find out where all Phil’s tension has fled.

“No, sir,” Clint says and there’s a dirty rasp to his drawl.

Phil’s suddenly unable to breathe and he sure as fuck shouldn’t be staring at Clint’s split lip, or the bruise forming on his cheek, and – holy hell, those eyes!

Clint smirks, shifts his pelvis and now he knows exactly what Phil sounds like when he moans. If you ask Phil later, he’ll tell you he has no idea where the steel in his spine comes from, but he manages, despite having to fight himself _and_ Clint to take advantage of the momentary distraction. Clint’s off balance, has freed Phil’s hands, which is a mistake. With a hard uppercut and a quick twist of his hips, Clint’s hitting the deck, dazed.

Phil leaps up as though scalded.

Then he drops into a crouch, blocking the door, watching as Clint drags himself up, first onto all fours and Phil can’t look away. Not when Clint’s bare arms flex and shift as he runs the back of his hand over his face, swiping at the blood from his lips and nose, only succeeding in smearing it.

“What the fuck, sir?” he finally asks, giving Phil a bloodied frown as he presses his back to the closet door, arms resting on his bent knees, gaze unreadable. The span between them is an impenetrable gulf. Phil allows himself a tired sigh.

Phil’s a fool, been fighting this attraction, this _thing_ between him and Barton for so long that it’s become the default, a habit he falls into without thought. But that’s gotten him nowhere, saved neither of them any hurt. He almost _died_ thinking Clint was gone, lost to mind control and worse. Phil doesn’t know why he’s still fighting, but he does know if he gives in, it’ll have to be on Clint’s terms, because that’s something that Clint has never had in his life. And Phil wants to give him that. At least that.

“Sorry,” he finally rasps out.

“You surprised me,” Clint replies, his head dropping back, shoulders slumping, as he eyes Phil from under narrowed eyes.

“Sorry,” Phil repeats. “Been sparring with Cap, changing things up,” he answers, trying to explain.

Clint’s closed off, has shut him out and Phil isn’t surprised. He did throw the first punch. Still, it hurts more than it should. Phil’s well acquainted with the riot of emotions that Clint inspires and he’s had long experience keeping them at bay. He’s just so fucking _tired_ of having to.

“This sucks, Barton.”

“Sir?”

“First off, it’s _Phil,_ dammit. As you made clear, you don’t work for SHIELD, you don’t work for _me,_ you can call me Phil.”

“Phil?” he mouths, questioning.

Clint’s giving him nothing. Phil honestly doesn’t know what thing had done it, or if it was a little bit of everything, but he misses Clint’s wisecracks, his sarcasm, his humor. Especially at times like this when the air is fraught and full and Phil thinks he’s going to choke before he can get two words out.

“Fuck!” he huffs out under his breath.

“Haven’t heard you swear this much since Hunchun, sir.”

Phil glares at him.

“Phil,” Clint amends. “Shit, give me a goddamned break, Coulson. It’ll take some time. I don’t even call you by your first name in my head!”

“You’re smart, Barton. You’ll adapt.”

“Hey!” Clint gives him a half-smile. “Fair’s fair. If you’re Phil, then I’m Clint.”

Phil swallows, then nods. “I can do that.”

Clint seems calmer, less tense, the hint of a smile curving his lips. “So what sucks? What, besides Nat, I mean?”

Clint is ever observant, especially when you don’t want him to be. That hasn’t changed in the least. But Phil swore he’d speak up and he’s going to. He just wishes for better odds on the outcome.

“This,” he waves his hand at the trailer, flicks it between the two of them, then sweeps toward the wide world. “What happened. To both of us.” He hopes for some mystical, miraculous understanding, but Clint just gives him a confused nod. Like he’s humoring Phil.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you? Going to insist I spell it out?”

Clint’s eyes widen and he gives Phil a half-confused, half-amused grin. “Sure, boss. _Phil._ Spill.”

“We,” he stutters, “I miss you, Clint. I want you to come home. Back where you belong.”

And that must have been the exact wrong thing to say. Clint stiffens, any progress Phil had made lost to a blank blue canvas behind Clint’s eyes.

“In case you’ve forgotten, _sir,_ ” Clint says with a vehemence that makes Phil wince. “I nearly took down the helicarrier. Gave Loki the keys to the kingdom. Made damned sure he nearly killed you.” He’s shaking his head, his hands balled into fists. “Fuck, no. I don’t belong there!”

“Clint! It’s not like that!”

His eyes narrow, his lips thin as he glares at Phil. “Stop it. I’m no junior agent. I know I was ‘this close’ to going down. Should have been taken out earlier. You know it as well as I do!”

“Clint,” Phil protests, but it’s all true. If Natasha hadn’t gotten him back, Clint would have been just another fatality instead of an Avenger.

“Don’t try to lie to me. That makes it worse,” Clint demands, his voice raw, cracking. “Just proves that you’re compromised. We all are. And aren’t you the one that taught me just how dangerous that is?”

“Fine. That’s all true.” Phil isn’t going to deny any of it. “But I’m not asking for SHIELD. I’m asking for _me._ I want you to come home, Clint. You’re not alone anymore. Haven’t been, not since Bogota. We’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

Bogota is five years in the past, but it isn’t when Phil started carrying a torch for his archer. That had been a year earlier, in China. But Clint’s not saying anything, just giving Phil that million-mile gaze.

Phil’s not really a man of words and Clint’s never been one for talking, but they’ve gone too long this time for the half-finished sentences and coded sarcasm to be enough. Still, Phil wishes Clint would give him something to grab onto, a lifeline.

“Clint, the only one that’s still holding a grudge is you. Everyone else has forgiven you because they know it wasn’t your fault.” He ends with his voice going hard, a bit desperate, but Phil sees the doubt, the disbelief in Clint’s eyes and he needs to get through to him before he loses him again.

“Explain to me why you only blew one engine. Or why Hill and Fury are both alive?” Phil’s pressing harder now, has to drive the point home. “You never miss, Clint. Not unless you mean to. Even under Loki’s control, even under that, you fought it. You gave us enough time to keep the carrier flying—”

“And I gave Loki enough time to stab you, goddammit!” Clint chokes out, interrupting Phil. “That’s on me,” he finishes, his voice gone quiet, strained. He won’t meet Phil’s eyes and that’s not making it better.

Phil inhales sharply, knows that he’s taking a chance, but things are so fucked right now, he doubts he can make it worse. Still, he’s swallows and licks his lips as he leans forward, reaches for Clint, telegraphing his moves to make sure Clint agrees even if silently.

Clint’s head jerks up and his eyes go wide. They’re open and broken, so vulnerable that Phil’s heart bleeds. He shifts forward, crawls awkwardly on all fours to cross the bare floor, but Clint doesn’t run, doesn’t stiffen, just watches him move. He’s so still, Phil would worry, but for the thrumming pulse he can see in the hollow of Clint’s neck.

Phil is hovering, face so close to Clint’s he can feel the rapid exhale against his cheek. He hasn’t taken his eyes from Clint’s, caught a sweeping glance, holding it with intent. “I’m going to kiss you, Clint, because I’ve been aching to for years.”

And Phil leans the final distance, kisses him softly. He plans on keeping it tender, just a quick brush of lips, but Clint whimpers, reaches up, clutches Phil like a drowning man and something too tight loosens in Phil’s chest, crashes open with a feral, possessive growl. He surges forward, ignores split lips, self-inflicted bruises, and drags Clint to his chest, kisses him like his life depends on it, because this, _this_ is something that he’d been afraid he’d lost forever, before he’d ever had it to begin with. And this is too precious to lose.

The kiss goes on, shifting from hard to soft, to tender then back to heated and furious. They have a lot of time to make up for, both idiots of the highest order and neither wants to be the first to separate. Then they both shift, Clint up on his knees to fully meet Phil and Phil to press even closer. They manage it all without coming up for air. Their mouths are sealed together like a diver’s to his breather, but their hands are busy. Clint proves, once again, just how ambidextrous he is when he has Phil’s shirt rucked up and his pants half way open before Phil can catch up.

It doesn’t help that Phil is clinging like a limpet, wrapped around Clint, one hand gripping that corded steel of Clint’s bicep, the other holding him still. He’d chide himself for his desperation but now’s not the time to consider all the possible outcomes here. Not when he wants to climb into Clint and never surface.

They’re tangled together, half sitting, half sprawled in the narrow trailer floor, Clint stymied from getting his hands fully into Phil’s pants by Phil’s refusal to arch back. Finally, Clint laughs into Phil’s mouth, nips at his tongue and Phil gets with the program and pulls away, humming regretfully as he licks his tingling lips.

Instead of tugging off his shirt, he reaches for Clint’s, drags it over his head, then sits back, blinking in astonishment. He’s seen Clint naked numerous times, but he’d had to keep it professional, keep his eyes and thoughts above the belt and disinterested. Now, he can look his fill and he drinks in the sight of his archer, mouth going dry at the trust and quiet permission to touch Clint is allowing.

Phil’s fingers reach for the jagged scar above his right nipple. He’d listened to that happen, had been the one to order Clint into that bar. The heart-stopping fear he’d felt when he heard Clint’s sharp cry of pain had been the first indication that he was in too deep with his asset. But he’d never reported his inappropriate feelings, instead chose to keep them shuttered and tamped down.

There’d been worse incidents and Phil traces every mark, each scar reminding him how lucky he’d been each and every time. Clint is still breathing, still the wise cracking insubordinate asshole that pushes Phil’s buttons, makes him cranky and, yet, makes him smile inside like nobody ever has. He follows the trail his fingers leave with his lips, caressing and soothing, whispering promises into Clint’s skin. The gentleness makes Clint moan and shift his hips restlessly.

“Keep making that sound, Clint, and I won’t be responsible for the outcome,” Phil mouths against his sternum.

“Keep doing that with your mouth, boss, and I _will_ be responsible for the outcome,” Clint replies with a gust of breath, his stomach shaking with his laughter.

Phil nips the skin beneath his lips at being called boss, but he smiles, unable to help himself. He never really had a choice when it came to Clint and yet this feels like the ultimate choice, the one thing he’d dive head first off a cliff to save.

One of Clint’s hands tangle in Phil’s short hair, slides down to caress his nape, not pushing, but holding. He doesn’t want to let go, either, and that gives Phil permission to continue. He nudges Clint to turn slightly so he can count the ribs that are more prominent than before, but he stills as his eyes catch on a small tattoo nestled on his right side between two ribs. It’s small, but detailed, and Phil’s eyes prick. How the hell had he not acted on his feelings before the world went to hell? Why hadn’t he?

For there, before his eyes in black ink is the duplicate of his Ranger tat, including his serial number and rank. His breath leaves in a gust and it’s as though his strings were cut. He looks up and Clint’s eyeing him with barely concealed trepidation. Phil’s more the fool than he imagined, but that all stops now.

“Clint,” he says, wrecked, voice breaking on the exhale.

Clint’s answering smile is small, but genuine, relieved and that settles it. They don’t need to talk, they never have and it feels so damn right that Phil barks out a joyful laugh before pulling Clint down.

They kiss again, their mouths pressed tight as they shift and wriggle until they’re stretched out, pressed shoulder to knee, cocks lined up and sliding against one another. It feels too damned good and is going to be over too soon and, dammit, Phil’s not going to come in his pants!

He thinks it and is protesting when Clint demonstrates just how agile he is. He’s gotten one hand between them and opens their flies all while twisting himself around, so that he’s half on his back and Phil’s pressing him into the floor. Phil’s so hard and aching that the cramped quarters do nothing to stop his arousal. He can only groan when Clint presents his palm. Phil licks it, stopping to bite at the hard callouses even as his hips are still rutting against Clint. It’s all too much and even better when Clint wraps that calloused hand around them both. Phil can do nothing but shudder and cry out, clinging as the best climax of his life rips through him.

He feels Clint stiffen beneath him, the warm jets of come making the slick-slide easier, hips still thrusting until it’s too much as over-sensitized flesh demands he pull back or stop. But he can’t, he opens his eyes and the sight of Clint debauched and beautiful silences the roll and grind of his body. Phil stares at Clint, marvels at the flush suffusing his skin, the parted, kiss-slick lips, eyes, those gorgeous fucking eyes, heavy-lidded and blinking slowly. There’s a wicked gleam igniting in them, a goddamned twinkle no less, and Phil should recognize the mischievous glint, but he’s too lost in wonder, in overwhelming emotion to catch it until it’s too late.

Clint tackles him, rolls them over and pins him. He’s suddenly an enthusiastic puppy with hands and mouth everywhere, touches turning ticklish and playful before he leans down and delivers a heart-rending kiss, lush and full, spine meltingly hot. It leaves Phil a puddle with a stupid grin on his face but he’s not complaining. Can’t. He’s definitely not second guessing his luck, not when Clint is looking at him like that.

Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD, has suddenly turned into a sap, but he’ll take that. Any day. He pulls Clint down for another kiss, murmurs endearments as they cuddle. They still need to talk, but, for once, duty and his job can wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the final chapter of this story. There should be more, but that story isn't Clint's _or_ Phil's to tell, so it's not included here. I would like to write it at some point, but don't hold your breath.
> 
> And, yes, I'm completely mucking with canon here. This is a mish-mash of movie 'verse and lots of googling through comics 'verse, so forgive me if it sounds familiar, but is off by ninety degrees.
> 
> Lastly, I seriously could not have done this without hitlikehammers' constant encouragement. Thank you, darling, for everything!

Clint wakes to the slow realization that not only is he not alone, but he slept dreamless and untroubled for the duration. He opens his eyes and carefully lifts his head to rest on his hand so that he can stare at Phil without waking him. He still can’t quite believe that Phil is here in his bed. This is not his life.

As he shifts, bruised muscles twinge, sending sparks of pain flaring along his spine. He muffles a groan with his forearm, taking a moment to work out the aches. Phil’s sporting more than a few cuts and bruises himself and Clint winces in embarrassment, but Phil’s sleeping peacefully and seems no worse for the wear, so he’s not going to let himself get bent out of shape over it. What’s done is done. And if it had taken them beating the crap out of each other to get to this point, then Clint’s not going to complain.

He watches Phil a bit longer, enjoying the sight. He knows that most people don’t really see Phil like he does. Phil’s damned good at being nondescript, forgettable, but Clint sees him, always has, and, to be honest, he’s always been a little gone for Phil. Now he’s all the way there.

Still, he can’t stay and cuddle much as he’d like to. Natasha’s in trouble and Clint has her back, just as she’s always had his. He can’t wait for Phil to wake and drag SHIELD into this. There’s a reason Nat went off the grid and Clint’s determined to honor her reasons, whatever they are.

He wants to kiss Phil one last time, but can’t take the chance. He’s risking enough by moving off the bed. Luckily, the mattress, if you could call the hard foam cushions that, doesn’t shift as he gets off. His duffle is tricky to get because the bathroom door squeaks, but, with patience, Clint opens the door and silently packs his bag.

He’s tempted to turn around, take one last glimpse of Phil in his bed, but he’s already committed his face and bare skin to memory.

Just as he reaches for the trailer door, Clint hears the safety being removed from a pistol. Phil’s pistol. _’Shit!’_

“I know we didn’t exactly talk through everything, but I’m pretty sure we had _this_ discussion, Agent Barton.”

Phil’s voice has gone cold, but he still sounds sleepy, delightfully rumpled. Even if it weren’t for the gun, Clint’d be hard pressed not to do anything that voice demanded.

Clint lifts his hands and turns around slowly. Phil is sitting up, bare chested, sheets pooling around his waist, his gun pointed at Clint’s heart. The adrenaline flashes through his veins, but he clenches his jaw and fights to keep his shit together, has to tear his eyes away from the jagged scar ruining Phil’s flawless chest. He opts for his usual wiseass response in defense. “Better aim for the head, _Phil._ We know how anything else ends.”

He’s pretty sure Phil isn’t going to shoot, but his hand is perfectly steady, unwavering, and there’s that tight pinch of his brows which makes Clint pause, plants a seed of doubt. His breath catches for an instant as he meets Phil’s eyes. They’re no longer that startlingly clear blue. They’ve changed to a stormy gray. Clint’s certainty that Phil won’t shoot plummets.

He swallows, takes a deep breath, opens his mouth to try to explain, to talk his way out of this. He’s pretty good at that, except he’s never been able to get far with Phil. Only the honest to god truth has ever worked with Phil.

“Don’t say a word, Barton.” Phil interrupts Clint, motions with the pistol. “Drop your duffle and get back in this bed.”

Phil’s pissed and Clint wants to fix it. He does as ordered and climbs back into the bed, giving Phil his best shy smile. Phil’s expression doesn’t change and the gun stays targeted at his chest even as he moves up the bed.

“If you wanted to fuck me, baby, all you had to do was ask,” Clint mouths off, but the sultry tone gets him nowhere. Phil’s eyes turn colder, his mouth thins.

“Cuff yourself to the closet door.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You got cuffs under that sheet somewhere?”

“Barton. I know you have cuffs in this damned trailer. Use them.”

Clint’s starting to get worried, wonders just what’s going on in Phil’s head. Before Loki, he would have known. Thought he could read Phil like a book; now he’s fumbling in the dark and tripping over everything.

“Kinky,” Clint grumbles, trying to keep it light. But he pulls the cuffs out of his bag and cuffs himself to the door handle, rattling them a few times to prove that he’s locked in. All the while he’s trying not to look at Phil, to ignore the stupid flutter in his stomach, the way his heart stutters when he thinks he’s screwed up again.

Once it’s clear that Clint is going nowhere, Phil lowers the muzzle and flicks on the safety. After setting the gun aside, he reaches into the corner and snags his discarded t-shirt. And Clint has no idea what to say, so he waits. For once.

Phil runs a hand through his hair, the only tell that he’s close to losing his temper. Clint’s not sure if it’s a record or not, but he’s pretty certain that he’s one of the few that can make Phil Coulson lose it. Tony Stark’s the other and he’s in a class all by himself.

“I know you have a self-destructive streak a mile wide, Barton. I am fully aware of your tendency to rashness, how emotion can cloud your decisions. I also know what Natasha means to you.” Phil lays out the obvious, isn’t saying a damn thing, really. Then he continues. “I love Natasha, too, Clint. But I’ll be damned if I came all this fuckin’ way to let you go off and do something stupid.”

Phil’s brows furrow together and his eyes flash. He’s got his hands fisted in the sheets and he’s breathing a little too fast. Clint’s not sure how or even why Phil’s so angry. It’s not like this is the first time he’s gone off half-cocked, leapt without a plan. That’s sort of Clint’s life.

He remembers that jagged white line marring Phil’s chest and he doesn’t want to hurt Phil any more than he already has. But before he can open his mouth and apologize, Phil sags against the wall of the trailer, his shoulders drooping. And Clint can’t do a damned thing except watch knowing that he’s the cause. Again.

“Dammit, Clint. If you won’t do it for me, would you at least do it for Natasha? She needs you to have her back. The Avengers might be that, one day. But you’re all she has and you doing this,” he pauses, takes a breath. “You not realizing just how much she needs you… this is killing us –,” he stumbles, then corrects himself, with a soft, “her.”

Phil won’t meet Clint’s eyes and that makes Clint feel worse. “Look, sir… _Phil,_ I can’t… SHIELD isn’t the place for me, not anymore. And I can’t go back there.” His gut is roiling, doesn’t want to see pity in Phil’s eyes, but he’s not going to delude himself and isn’t going to lie to Phil.

“Clint,” Phil says, his voice soft. “Please look at me,” he asks.

There’s something about Phil asking instead of ordering, something twists inside Clint and he glances up. Phil’s on his knees at the edge of the bed, his palms are flat on his thighs, but Clint notices a twitch in his right hand, like Phil wants to touch him.

He swallows, inhales shakily, sags to the floor, eyes closing as his hand hangs limply in the cuff. “I heard what you said, about being forgiven, but I can’t forgive myself, knowing what I did, how many…” His voice trails off, names and faces swimming behind his eyelids. “Some big damn hero,” he huffs, self-loathing dripping venomous in his tone.

“Okay,” Phil says. “I get that. But you don’t have to go back to SHIELD. You’re an Avenger and there’s a place at the mansion for you, there’s a team that wants you there. Not a one of them doesn’t get where you’re coming from.”

Clint starts as Phil kneels in front of him, presses a palm to his cheek. “And until you can forgive yourself, I’ve got enough absolution for the both of us.”

Clint shakes his head, squeezes his eyes tightly shut to keep the sharp wetness at bay. He doesn’t deserve Phil’s compassion, sure as hell doesn’t deserve _Phil._

Phil hovers closer, warm breath gusting against his ear. “Don’t make me beg, Barton, but I will if I have to.”

That comment sends a shockwave through Clint and his eyes fly open. Phil’s right there, his eyes that mesmerizing blue with the soft crinkles at the corners. He’s got a slight smile curling his lips and Clint’s heart lurches painfully. He wants to believe that this is real, that he’s not caught in one of those dreams that rips his heart out every damn time he wakes alone.

“But you beg so prettily,” Clint replies and his voices comes out less cocky and far more tentative than he’d like, but he gets a chuckle out of Phil.

“That was just the once, dammit!” And Phil’s genuine smile at the familiar teasing makes Clint sigh and drop his head back to the door. He might as well admit it. He’ll do anything Phil asks of him.

“Where are the keys to these?”

“Honestly? I have no fuckin’ clue, boss.”

Phil just blinks at him, realizes he’s not kidding, and, in the end, just takes the bolt cutters and the strong man wielding them in his usual unflappable manner.

If he smirks at Clint more than a few times on the way back to New York, Clint’s not going to complain. It’d all been worth it when Phil had kissed him so sweetly that Clint’s still not sure he didn’t die somewhere along the way.

~~*~~

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur, mostly because Clint takes advantage of Phil’s soothing presence to catch some real sleep. Clint argues that he should just be dropped at the mansion, but he loses the argument when Phil insists that he's needed there to be in on the planning. They end up back on the helicarrier before he can adjust to the idea. He’s twitchy and hyper aware, but no one seems to notice as he dogs Phil’s heels. Until, that is, they stride into Fury’s office.

Clint is well aware that Phil is Fury’s “good eye”, his right hand, but he was always out of the room when these kind of negotiations occurred in the past. Now he’s stuck trying not to fidget as Phil lays out his demands without actually revealing the full story: a team, a jet, air and ground support, and Clint’s reinstatement. Clint startles at the last, swallowing reflexively as he holds his breath. He hadn’t asked for any such thing, doesn’t think he wants it and he’s about to object, but meets Fury’s eye and that hard stare silences him.

Fury turns back to Phil. “Anything else you need, Coulson? The keys to the White House, perhaps?”

“That won’t be necessary, sir. Though I have it on good authority that Dr. Banner might enjoy such access.” Phil isn’t smiling, but Clint could swear he sounds damned smug.

“Get out of my office, Coulson,” Fury glares, but he doesn’t seem pissed. And, wow. That’s new. Maybe there is something to the rumor that Phil’s holding a grudge about the whole ‘being dead’ thing and Fury’s trying to appease him in any way he can.

Phil stands and Clint shoots up out of his chair. He doesn’t make the door before Fury’s words freeze him in place. “Barton!”

Clint turns, stomach churning. He should apologize for shooting his boss, he still hasn’t, but no words come out.

“Welcome back. Please try not to misplace yourself or Agent Romanoff again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Clint replies, surprised. Phil’s standing at his elbow and Fury looks away, waving them out.

When the door closes behind them, Clint looks up at Phil, doesn’t touch him like he wants to, but he smiles, grateful. He hadn’t actually realized how much it hurt giving this up. He might be an Avenger now, but he was a SHIELD agent first. It feels right to be one again.

~~*~~

Fury keeps his word and they get everything Phil asks for. Phil is a whirlwind, moving heaven and earth in a matter of hours. Clint is honestly impressed, though he should know better. He’s just never seen the op from this side. He’s tactical and as long as he’s got his gear and his orders, he’s good. Still, he finds Phil’s calm capability and the way he barks out orders highly arousing, which could get awkward. So Clint spends his time at the range reacquainting himself with his favorite bow.

There’s no time for conversation, just detailing the plan and executing it. Phil does shove him inside the jet’s tiny lavatory and kisses him senseless before they land in Belarus. His whispered, “Be careful,” makes Clint’s heart swell. Yeah, there’s a shit storm of things to deal with, but he has _this._ Phil. That makes him even more determined to get this right. Get Natasha and whoever this dude is and get home.

~~*~~

The extraction goes better than Clint expected, but they’ve still got some dogged pursuers and Nat's injured. The guy that Natasha has decided is worth all this effort is strangely silent and looks somewhat familiar, probably is on enough wanted lists that Clint couldn’t have missed his face. But he has one defining feature, something that should stand out more than it does – his left arm is metallic from the shoulder down. Somehow it doesn’t impair his ability, but it brings up all sorts of questions in Clint’s mind. He doesn’t blurt them out, but that doesn’t stop him from wondering.

The guy, and Natasha still hasn’t said his name, is attractive enough, but Clint can’t figure out why _this_ one deserves saving or why now. Still he gives the guy a black hoodie to cover himself as they drive through the back streets of Grodno. Clint saves his questions for the flight home. Once they’ve made the rendezvous point.

Phil’s voice urges them on in Clint’s ear. He had been their diversion and that had unnerved Clint to the point of near distraction. Whatever it is they're starting, he's still unsure how to treat Phil, and not just in the field. He hopes like hell he can figure it out before he runs Phil off. Phil is safely on the quinjet and Clint's better, can concentrate, but the adrenaline rush, the fear won’t dissipate until he can see Phil, touch him. Hell, he plans to kiss the daylights out of him the instant the wheels lift off the tarmac because he _can_. And, holy hell that feels good.

Natasha barks out a warning and Clint swerves, takes a hard left, skidding around the corner without thinking. He shoves down all thoughts of Phil, tucks that confusing tangle of emotions away. He can’t afford to be distracted and Phil is one hell of a distraction. Natasha tosses the guy a gun and together the two of them take out the guys chasing them.

The final two miles are uneventful and Clint relaxes minutely as Natasha and her guest murmur quietly in Russian. Clint’s grasp of the language is pretty good thanks to Nat, but he is purposefully ignoring them, keeping his attention focused on the road; his eyes peeled for any sign of pursuit.

There is none and Clint breathes even easier as the blue runway lights appear around the last bend. He hears Phil swear in his ear, “Dammit! Drive faster, Barton. We've got hostiles converging on this location.” And then there’s the roar of jet engines, followed by the sharp report of Phil’s pistol.

Clint’s heart skips a beat and he floors it on the straightaway, fishtailing on the dirt before he drives through a fence and turns directly onto the runway. Phil's got this under control, but his penchant for understatement would make Clint roll his eyes except that there's a freaking _army regiment_ bearing down on the quinjet, a black Mercedes already parked beside it. The two guys splayed out on the tarmac help ease the constriction in Clint's lungs. He risks a glance in the rearview mirror and Natasha's pale, her face grim.

"Who the hell _are_ you?" he asks the guy next to Nat.

"Not the time, Clint," Natasha answers and meets his eye. He gives her a curt nod, but he's not done with this, not by a long shot and she acknowledges his glare.

Clint parks their ride next to the Mercedes and they tumble out, gear thrown over shoulders. When Clint offers an arm to support Nat (the splint on her leg is flimsy at best), the guy glares at him and simply picks Nat up, follows Clint into the jet.

The wheels are moving before they're all the way up the ramp. Shots start landing dangerously close to the jet and Clint turns to return fire, but Phil grabs him and tugs him in, shoving toward the cockpit. "Get up there and fly this damned thing. They have the fire power to blow us out of the sky and I trust you to not let that happen."

Clint goes, only turning back once he hears the _phwoomp_ of a rocket launcher firing. Phil's shot leaves a crater in the tarmac, dumping the lead truck into the hole. It buys them time for the pilot to get them in the air and for Clint to take over.

Phil's right and it's a tense ascent, but Clint manages to avoid the worst of the artillery fire.

Clint takes a long, deep breath and pries his hands from the controls as Natasha hands him a bottle of water and settles into the co-pilot's seat. She's been attended to, has a new splint on her leg, but she still looks like shit, too many bruises mar the visible skin and her eyes are hollow, haunted. But she came to Clint, her peace offering almost makes him smile.

"I'm still pissed at you for going off on your own like this," he says, the anger and fear still shadowing his words.

She opens her mouth to say something, apologize possibly, but Clint doesn’t want to hear it.

He shakes his head and her mouth snaps shut. "I'm sorry," he apologizes instead. "I shouldn't have bailed on you. I should have been here, Nat. I could have…"

She silences him with a gentle touch on his lips. "Shhhh. I couldn't bring you into this. I wouldn't have. So, don't."

That hurts, but he's not really surprised. He doesn't trust himself, isn't sure why he thought she still might. "I get that," he answers, glancing at the horizon. If he looks at her, he'll catalog every cut and bruise, lose himself in imagining the pain she went through; each detail adding to the guilt that is already suffocating.

"Clint," she says, determinedly trying to get him to look at her. "It's not like that. I trust you. But James… he wouldn't. I'm surprised he got in that car."

Clint snorts. "He only did it because you were hurt. I didn't fail to notice him going all caveman to stake his claim and protect you."

"It's not like that."

Clint rolls his eyes. "I remember the name, Nat. James. You called him James. You used to murmur his name in your sleep."

She sags, looks at him with tired eyes. "That was a long time ago, Barton."

"Hey, a guy doesn't forget! It's hard on the ego. At least you didn't confuse me with him when you came," he says, grinning. "Or, wait! _Is_ that a good thing?"

Natasha snickers and he knows they're going to be okay.

"So, tell me who the hell he is," he demands.

Before Natasha can answer, Phil is standing at their back, arms crossed over his chest (and dammit, it's not fair just how spectacular he looks in the tac suit!), and glaring at Natasha.

"Yes, Agent Romanoff, explain to the class why the Winter Soldier is cooling his heels in a SHIELD plane," Phil demands. There's no teasing, no camaraderie in the ice cold tenor of his voice.

Only Clint sees the flinch before she turns to Phil and meets his glare with a level gaze. "He asked to come in, and I said 'yes'." She risks a glance at Clint who is still trying to reconcile what he's heard about the Russian operative known as the Winter Soldier and the man who was so gentle with Natasha. "Clint brought me in and I'm extending the same offer."

She pauses, but there's no other tell that she's sweating this as she lifts her chin and challenges Phil. "You backed him up, I thought you'd back me up, too."

Phil's fingers twitch and he suddenly looks exhausted, but he nods. "And I will, but we need some ground rules for how this is going down."

Clint reaches for Natasha's hand, squeezing once. She's relieved, even if her expression hasn't changed.

"Come with me, Romanoff. Your 'friend' insists on being difficult."

Clint laughs silently as they head to the back of the plane and the small detention cell, Phil automatically supporting Natasha with an arm around her waist.

He still doesn't know exactly why this guy is important, but his questions can wait.

Clint zones out a bit, lets the soothing monotony of flying calm him. He's enjoying the quiet of his brain, the way everything has simply shut down. There's no more accusations, no more memories, no more wistful longing.

He's pulled back to the interior of the jet and awareness of his companions when he hears Phil hiss at Natasha, "Holy hell, Romanoff, do you have _any_ idea the shit storm Barnes' reappearance is going to cause?"

"I am well aware of the potential furor, sir." She crosses her arms in front of her and gives Phil that cold stare that is so damned terrifying. Phil doesn't so much as blink. "I wouldn't change a thing," she says finally, her voice low.

Phil sighs and then helps settle her in next to Clint once again. His hand rests on Clint's shoulder, the warmth of the gesture drawing Clint's eyes up to meet Phil's. He looks like hell, sounds like it, too, when he says, "Get us to the helicarrier as soon as you can, Barton. I'm not radioing this one in."

"Sure thing, boss."

There's a quick squeeze from Phil, then he's gone. And Clint blinks at just how much he wants Phil back at his side.

Natasha taps his temple and gives him this _look._ It's a steadying mix of exasperated and fond. He's glad to see her, too.

"So Coulson's _stiff_ as ever, Barton," Natasha says, the smirk only in her voice.

"Har-har," he replies, refusing to take the bait.

"You telling me you two _didn't_ fuck each other's brains out?"

Clint nearly chokes and it's made worse because he can't stop thinking about a semi-naked Phil in his bed. The image of Phil's sleep-mussed hair and bare chest while pointing a gun at Clint should not be so freaking hot.

"Way to be subtle, Nat."

"You're a slut. I expected more by now."

"Well, there might have been more if some little _princess_ hadn't gone off and needed rescuing."

She punches his arm over his laughter and it hurts, dammit. His own fault, though. He knows that Natasha hates to be called or treated like a princess. She's more capable of taking care of herself than anyone Clint's ever met (including himself), but that doesn't mean he'll ever stop teasing her.

"Well, excuse me for interrupting you two," she snorts. "I think you'd thank me for finally making you talk."

"We didn't. Not really."

"What?" she blurts out. "You _idiot._ ” She sounds furious, but Clint hears the concern underneath.

To defuse the forthcoming questions about what might or might not have been said, Clint tosses off a casual, "We did manage some pretty amazing frottage on my trailer floor."

Natasha rolls her eyes at him. For a deflection, it's pretty terrible.

Clint sighs. "Then Phi—Coulson dragged me back to HQ at gunpoint. Basically."

Natasha's raised eyebrow means she approves of that tactic. Once he gets his head back on straight, or back to his normal (which was never anything but crooked as hell), he's so getting them both back.

"You're not off the hook, Barton."

"Can we talk about something besides _me?_ he whines. "Like Mr. Russian spy back there?"

"Sure," she replies, far too easily, which scrapes at Clint's already raw nerves. "As soon as you swear that you'll get your shit together with Phil and actually talk to the guy."

"But—"

She just ignores him, talks over him. "Phil's been through enough. You both have. It's about time you got that happily ever after you've always wanted."

"Who are you and what have you done with my partner?"

"Stop it, Barton," Natasha growls at him. "Nothing wrong with me wanting the two people I care the most about to be happy."

"I thought you didn't believe in –"

"I don't. I'm Russian," she waves it off. "But you do. Phil does. So don't be stupid and squander this second chance." She reaches up and turns his chin toward her. "Please, Clint?"

And, oh shit, how was he supposed to run from that?

He swallows and nods. "I'll give it my best shot, Nat."

She gives him a fierce smile. "Best marksman in the world."

They're silent after that. It's comfortable and familiar and Clint's got no problem giving Nat whatever space and time she needs. But his curiosity begins to get the better of him and he finally asks, "Okay, so I was patient—"

Natasha snorts, and he blurts out in defense, "I can be patient!"

"Only in the field, Barton."

He ignores the jab, even if it's true. Natasha's not the only one that has called him a hyperactive hellion with the attention span of a fly. "Who the hell is that guy and why does he have Phil Coulson so freaked?"

Natasha just looks at Clint.

"Oh, no! You do not get to pretend I should know this shit!"

"You should, Barton. You didn't read the dossiers on the team."

It's not a question, but Clint gives her a puzzled look. "No? Why would I? That's what I have you and Phil for."

"If you had, you might recognize the name: James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes."

"Well, I don’t. I didn't. So I don't." He's stumbling over his words and that means she's gotten under his skin badly. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

She just turns her head to stare out the windshield, but he can see the half-smile that curves her lips.

Since Barnes is somehow associated with their team, Clint starts wracking his brain for references. A glimmer, a half-formed memory pops up, of Rogers.

"Let me guess, he's got something to do with Cap?"

"They grew up together, were best friends until James fell during the war."

"What the fuck, Tash? That guy's younger than I am. No way was he friends with Cap. How do you know he's the real deal?"

A voice echoes the question from over Clint's right shoulder. Clint does not start, but that's only long years of training holding it back. Still, it annoys him that Coulson can sneak up on him. From the way her eyes narrow, Phil had snuck up on Natasha, too.

She turns to look at Phil as he asks more questions. "This has the hallmark of a setup, Romanoff."

"It does," she concedes, but that's all she allows. "But it's not." She drops her head back, suddenly so tired and small and Clint wants to gather her up, hold her, _fix_ it.

"Please elaborate," Phil demands, but his voice is gentler this time.

"It wasn't just the Germans working on creating a super soldier, sir. We—the Russians—got there, too. Just not quite like Cap." She shrugs and, even if she won't meet his eyes, Clint can see the flare of bright pain in her expression. "Have you heard of the Infinity Formula?"

Clint shakes his head, but Phil straightens, his face going white as he gives a curt nod. "We still need to verify his identity and the veracity of his claims, Romanoff. He will be in custody and Captain Rogers will hear not one word of this until we know—"

"With all due respect," Natasha interrupts. "You don't get to make that call, sir."

"The damage –"

"Rogers is an adult and no matter what, he'd want to know that James is alive."

"And if he's not?" Phil bites out. "If your James is just a very good facsimile? How will Cap handle that?"

"Phil," Clint interrupts and Phil turns sharply, his eyes flashing, face openly hostile. But Clint doesn't back down. "Knowing is better than finding out too late. Trust me on this. James' death is still recent and real to Cap. If there's even the possibility…"

"He gets to make the call," Natasha finishes. "Trust us when we say that anything else hurts too much."

Phil swallows, looks at them both, the fight gone, his shoulders drooping. He knows they're talking about so much more than James' resurrection. "Okay," he finally concedes. "But you get in there and stay with him, Romanoff. His reappearance just now is highly suspicious and I don't believe in miracles."

Natasha stands with an amazing amount of grace for someone in a splint. She leans over to kiss Clint on the cheek and whisper 'talk to him' in Clint's ear before leaving the cockpit with Phil's aid.

Clint has a few more minutes until Phil returns. He knows Phil will be back. Natasha will insist.

This time the silence isn't soothing or restful. Clint's mind won't calm, there's still too much to discuss, and he'd rather avoid the talk altogether.

"Phil," Clint says before Phil sits. He's not sure why's he's so nervous, why he's worried, but he feels like he owes Phil an apology, maybe more than one.

But Phil has other plans. "Clint," he says, stopping Clint. He's got one eyebrow raised and a soft smile on his face. Clint's brain blanks, only coming online when Phil leans down and kisses him. He forgets his nerves, everything he wants to say and reaches up, holding Phil in place.

"Phil, I—"

"Clint, there's time for talking, but I think right now, it can wait. I just want to sit here and take a deep breath, let it all soak in."

He can't quite believe that Phil's rattled and gives him a curious look.

"Don't tell me this isn't all a bit overwhelming?" Phil asks, but he's tangled their fingers together and Clint's struck by the contrast of his darker skin against Phil's. "This is the first time since Loki that we're all in one place relatively unscathed. Let me enjoy it while it lasts."

Clint nods, well aware of feeling that this must be a dream because Clint's life isn't like this. 

But, impossibly, it _is._

Phil leans forward once again, kisses him with a little more hunger, his tongue sweeping Clint's palate, tasting and teasing. The man can kiss and Clint gives a needy little whimper when Phil pulls away. He'd blush, but Phil is captivated by the sound. The way his eyes darken holds Clint's breath hostage.

They kiss again and Clint wants so much to be horizontal. He lets out a frustrated sigh; his hands can't find bare skin except at the nape of Phil's neck, the tac suit stymying his efforts. Phil huffs out a low chuckle against Clint's lips, then presses their foreheads together. "Hold that thought," he murmurs. "Just awhile longer, then I plan to blow your mind once it's just us and a bed."

"I look forward to it, sir."

The End


End file.
